


A Study in Mink

by mycake



Series: Otterlock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, F/M, Hedgehog John, Hurt John Watson, Other, Otter Sherlock, Otterlock, POV John Watson, Silver Fox Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycake/pseuds/mycake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A play on BBC Sherlock's "A Study in Pink" and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "A Study in Scarlet".</p><p>The first of a series of detective stories featuring John Watson, a hedgehog, who was wounded in a fight with a rogue badger and has ventured out on his own to find new lodgings closer to human civilization. In his search he stumbles upon a den belonging to the eccentric Sherlock Holmes who welcomes him to stay at 221-B Baker Stream for the winter.</p><p>The two become inseparable and when a recent string of murders at the farm threaten Sherlock's livelihood, John must gather his courage in the face of danger to save his beloved friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reminiscences of John H Watson

In the year 2010, I set out on the greatest adventure of my life. I migrated away from my place of birth in search of greener pastures with fewer predators. I had neither friends nor family in England, and was therefore as free as the air (or as free as a hedgehog of my stature and ill health could be). It had been two winters since my encounter with the rogue badger and I had yet to fully recover from the injuries I had sustained in the fight.

Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated away from the woodlands and closer to human civilization. There I came upon a small sheep farm, which housed a human family and a sizeable garden, where I stayed for quite some time, leading a meaningless existence among the trimmed hedges, spending much of my time foraging instead of readying myself for a long winter.

As October approached I was no closer to being ready for my torpor than when I had first arrived. I soon realized I'd have to abandon my new lodgings in search of a proper burrow for the winter.

One day, while out foraging, I came upon a small stream and followed it to a patch of shrubbery along the hillside. There I was surprised to find a rather large vacated burrow. I easily slipped inside through the wide entryway.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed," I remarked looking the place over. I began exploring the large airy sitting room which held a large circular tree stump in the middle. On this stump were all sorts of odds and ends: toadstools, various roots and herbs, and some preserved frogs. On the floor, a glass jar lay on its side next to an old beat-up cushion with the faded image of the Union Jack.

I admired the wide array of plants decorating the table-top, most edible, some not. The aromatic herbs gave the whole room a tantalizing odour which made my mouth water. There were silver instruments as well: bent forks, flattened spoons, and dull knives. The pièce de résistance, of course, was the large, intact, piece of magnifying glass trimmed with shiny gold and engraved with the initials _S.H._

 _Odd,_ I thought. _What creature would have use for such things?_

I noticed a simple chair in the corner of the room with a piece of cloth draped over it.

"A rat den," I decided, going by the odd collection of knick-knacks. "Must be some sort of pack rat..." I could only hope he would be an amiable chap.

I went on to inspect the rooms, two in total. One was relatively bare and had been unoccupied for quite some time and the other had a nest of soft hay and cotton, along with what appeared to be a tattered blue scarf.

I let out a yawn and my eyes began to droop seeing such a comfortable resting spot. I had had such a long walk that evening and the day's break was soon approaching so I thought I'd settle down and wait for the owner of the burrow to return so we could negotiate the terms of my staying for the winter.

I curled up against the plush cashmere scarf and closed my eyes softly. For the first time in a long time I felt warm and secure.


	2. Mr Sherlock Holmes

I awoke to the sounds of a very large animal digging at the bedding around me.

"Badger!" I shrieked.

"Wrong," the creature stated as he began making small circles. He clawed at the bedding once more before laying down. Even then he continued to wiggle to get comfortable. He finally curled up into a tight ball and let out a heavy sigh.

"Wh-what are you?" I asked, paralysed with fear with my back against the wall.

The long weasel like creature cracked one eye open and looked me over.

" _Lutra lutra_ , to be precise, river otter to be less precise, but you may call me Sherlock Holmes. And you are?"

"A hedgehog," I said nervously.

"I can see that. Perhaps I could have phrased that better," he admitted as he sat up once more. He looked down at me from a great height and asked, " _Who_ are you?"

"John... John Watson," I stuttered as I craned my neck to look up at him.

"Well, John-John Watson. Welcome to 221B Baker Stream. I take it you're in need of lodgings for the winter?"

"How do you gather?"

"You're much too thin and are a long way from home. Badger or fox?" he asked.

"What?" I asked, astonished.

"You were attacked not two years ago by a creature much larger than yourself. I'd say Badger going by your outcry earlier."

"You're absolutely right," I said in awe.

"Never seen an otter before?" he inquired with a wry grin.

"No, never."

"That's alright, neither have I," he smiled. "You're starring."

"I'm so sorry. I hate to be rude."

"I've noticed. I take it you don't mind my experiments downstairs?"

"I'm a hog of science myself."

"Oh?" He sounded surprised. "Perhaps you'd be of some use then."

"I was hoping I could be."

"I've discovered a new vegetable alkaloid and was wondering if you'd be able to gather a specimen... say... a beetle?"

"Of course!" I exclaimed.

I was so eager to help that I left right away in search of a bark beetle. In no time at all, I returned with a big fat juicy beetle and an extra for myself.

Sherlock carefully took the beetle into his paws. I was in awe of his dexterity and watched closely as he dropped the beetle into the glass jar while he mixed his concoction with a mortar and pestle.

I munched on the extra specimen while Sherlock started painting the back of the captive beetle with the watery paste.

I approached the jar and watched with intrigue as the beetle began to ooze a clear viscous fluid.

"What is it doing?" I asked, pressing my snout to the jar.

"Salivating," Sherlock remarked, making note of the beetle's reaction on the back of a leaf of paper.

"Fascinating..."

"Sometimes I don't open my mouth for days on end. I'm not sulking when I do, and if you leave me be I'll come out of it on my own. What are your shortcomings?"

"What?" I asked, turning my attention away from the drooling invertebrate.

"We should know the worst of each other if we're to spend winter together."

"Oh, right," I gave it a good long think. "Erm... I don't like rows; my nerves are quite shaken as is... I'm also nocturnal so I won't be of much use in the daylight... besides I'm quite lazy."

"Not an issue; I'm nocturnal as well."

"Well that's good then!" I exclaimed.

"Hedgehogs don't normally share their dwellings, do they?"

"No, I suppose not," I chuckled to myself. "We are known to _hog_ the hedges."

Sherlock furrowed his brow at my little joke and I could tell he wasn't one for wordplay.


	3. Light in the Darkness

Sherlock was not a difficult creature to live with in the winter months. He was quiet during the day and was regular in his habits. I entered my state of torpor and the world continued to turn on its axis without me.

Sherlock spent his nights in the laboratory he'd made in the sitting room. Sometimes he'd venture out during the morning to hunt or go on long walks.

Come early March, I was ready to come out of hibernation and slowly started waking up.

I toddled out of my room one evening to find Sherlock at the lab bench, bent over, and concentrating heavily on his experiment.

I blinked and yawned.

"Tea?" he offered, picking up a wooden cup with two paws.

"Sure," I said, not knowing exactly what I was accepting.

Sherlock stood on hind quarters, wringing his paws as he watched me lap up what he called _"tea"_

"It's good," I remarked, licking my chops. I took another few laps before asking, "Would you like some?"

"No, no," he insisted.

 _Suspicious_ , I thought. _However, if he wanted me dead, he had all winter to do so._

Sherlock Holmes was such a strange creature; it came as no surprise that my interest in him only deepened as time wore on. His very appearance was enough to strike attention. He was well over 90 centimetres long, not including his tail, and was so lean he looked a great deal longer.

His eyes were a piercing shade of brown and combined with his upturned snout his whole expression was one of alertness and decisiveness. His paws were blotted with all sorts of chemical stains yet retained an extraordinary amount of dexterity. He easily manipulated small instruments from paw to paw and rarely made use of his mouth to open things.

I, on the other hand, was forced to use more clumsy methods to get my food.

My health was also an issue when it came to foraging and hunting. I couldn't venture far from the burrow even in favourable weather, so it helped to have a companion with such a wide skill set and similar appetite. Sherlock was an omnivorous eater with a strange retentive memory for truffles and their whereabouts. He enjoyed experimenting with his food more than he did eating it.

I did my best to help bring in food but Sherlock always managed to outdo me. What surprised me was he often didn't eat the food he had gathered and he would always let me take more than my fair share.

I did enjoy the mystery which hung around my companion, and endeavoured to unravel it.

"You say you've never met another like yourself?" I asked over a breakfast of berries and herbs.

"Bred in captivity."

I swallowed hard. "I'm ever so sorry, I didn't mean-"

"You prefer insects to fruit," he said, quickly turning the subject from his troublesome past.

"This is lovely," I said, pointedly taking a large bite. "Though I am partial to frog."

"As am I," Sherlock said with a pained expression.

"You must be starving," I said, trying to pass him the last of my berry.

He merely waved his paw in the air, rejecting my offering.

"What do otters normally eat?" I inquired.

"Fish, primarily."

"Then we will get you some fish," I decided.

"The stream is far too shallow."

"Oh," I said, disappointedly. "You are far from home as well."

Sherlock nodded in response.

"Then we'll find a big fat toad to share."

Sherlock chuckled in response. "If you believe you're well enough-"

"I'm always up for a bit of adventure."


	4. The Game is Afoot

Sherlock poked his head out of the burrow.

"The coast is clear," he said, ushering me out.

I saw the sun setting in the west and knew it wouldn't be long before the toads began to emerge from the stream nearby.

I hobbled out head first and started on the trail of a nice juicy toad for Sherlock and me.

"This is ever so exciting!" I exclaimed.

Sherlock waddled awkwardly at my side. He obviously wasn't used to walking so slow. I could hear his stomach growling so I started to speed up my search, keeping my snout close to the ground.

"Wait," Sherlock warned, stopping in his tracks.

"What is it?" I asked, ready to curl up in a moment’s notice. I looked up to see a silver fox starring at us from across the stream.

I quickly curled into a tight ball as the fox started searching for a way across the water. I heard a splash followed by heavy panting as the fox started swimming across the stream.

"Sherlock!" he cried out.

Sherlock left my side and hurried to aid the fox.

I slowly unfurled myself and debated running for cover while the fox was preoccupied.

"At the farm, there's been a murder. Another one of the hens," the fox panted.

"And what is so different about this one?"

The fox looked at him with amazement.

"Obviously you wouldn't have risked life and limb trying to get to me if this victim wasn't different," Sherlock noted.

"This time he left a note!" 

"A note?" I inquired and the fox jumped.

"What's this?" he asked.

"My assistant, John Watson," Sherlock explained.

"What is it?" the silver fox asked, titling his head to one side.

"I'm a hedgehog."

The fox bent over and started sniffing me closely. "Don't smell like much of a hog to me."

"John, this is Inspector Lestrade of The Yard."

"Inspector?" I asked.

"I take care of any and all deaths on the farm and report them to my superiors for proper disposal," Lestrade said proudly.

"He's a scavenger," Sherlock elaborated. "A note, you say?"

"On the barn. I'm sorry I can't come with. The man with the boom-stick has seen me lurking about the coop, and I'm fairly certain he thinks I'm the one that did it. I'll need to lie low for the time being."

"I understand," Sherlock said with a nod.

"What about the toad?" I asked.

"Who could think of eating at a time like this? Not when the game is afoot!"


	5. The Chicken Coop Killing

I slid through the wire fence with ease while Sherlock struggled to find a way under. I laughed as his lithe body wiggled and squirmed under the fence.

"Graceful," I commented.

Sherlock mumbled something about leaving me to the foxes next time.

We made our way to the chicken coop and I noticed right away something was amiss.

"The carcass is still here," I noted.

"Yes," Sherlock said disinterestedly, making his way around the mangled chicken.

"He didn't have any interest in eating what he'd freshly killed?" I asked, looking over the chicken's bent neck. "It must have put up some struggle."

There were several deep bite marks in the chicken's throat.

"Asphyxiation," I remarked. The creature's jaws were powerful enough to crush the bird's windpipe.

"John!" Sherlock called out and I toddled away from the crime scene to where Sherlock was standing near the barn. On the door were fresh claw marks, left in a distinct pattern. Underneath, written in blood, were the letters _“ERT”._

"What does it say?" I asked just as the house lights flickered on.

I froze in place as Sherlock darted to the fence. The man with the death stick shouted after Sherlock, firing off several rounds of ammunition. I was brought into a frenzy and started running in circles, trying to escape.

I soon found the fence and stumbled blindly into the night. I could still hear the farmer's shouting in the distance.

I finally ran into Sherlock near the stream.

"Oh, Sherlock! Now he'll think we're the ones that killed that poor bird."

"No, John. He thinks _I've_ done it."

"We're in this together," I assured him. "If he wants you dead, he will have to go through me first!"

Sherlock cracked a smile.

"Climb on to my back."

"What?" I asked, startled.

"We'll cross the stream faster with you on my back."

"I... Erm... Okay," I said with a nervous gulp as Sherlock crouched down on all fours. It took a few tries but soon I was settled on his back.

Sherlock walked to the stream's edge and effortlessly propelled himself forward into the water. His streamline body cut through the water with ease. I lifted my head up and let the wind whip through my quills. It was an absolute thrill ride and I was disappointed when it came to an end.


	6. Rache

Back at Baker Stream, Sherlock became obsessed with the _Murder Most Fowl_ and stayed up for days working out the cryptogram left on the barn door.

I did my best to feed Sherlock even when he didn't want to eat and make him sleep when he wasn't tired.

"Rache!" he exclaimed. "Rache for what?"

I dutifully groomed his fur while he babbled nonsense. He shut his eyes for a moment so I could clean between his brows. He never once thanked me but the occasional chirp of appreciation was thanks enough.

"Here, let me," he offered to clean my quills and I respectfully declined. "It won't take but a moment."

I cringed as he ran his tongue over me in one fell swoop.

"Alright, that's enough," I insisted.

"You have bits of cotton caught between your-"

"I'm fine!" I said, shaking myself dry.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a sigh.

"Revenge," he hummed to himself. He sat with his paws steepled under his chin in a pensive pose.

"It's a shame to let fresh chicken go to waste," I said, feeling rather hungry just thinking of it. "Such a pointless killing if you ask me."

"No, not pointless. He is trying to send a message."

"Who?"

"That, admittedly, I do not know."

At first I was surprised that there were limits to his vast intellect but I soon discovered that Sherlock’s ignorance rivalled his knowledge. In fact, Sherlock's ignorance was often just as remarkable as knowledge. He was a master of alchemy, knew all of his toadstools, and could identify a creature by scent alone, yet knew nothing of true animal nature.

He never burdened his mind with small matters and yet claimed that the littlest things were infinitely the most important.

However, what surprised me the most were not his grand contradictions. Sherlock Holmes was completely unaware of the lunar calendar! 

"How can you not know the moon orbits the Earth?"

"You're astonished," he grinned. "Well! Now that I do know, I'll do my best to forget."

"Forget it? Sherlock! It's the solar system!"

"What does it matter to me? If we went around the sun it wouldn't make an ounce of difference to me or my work."

"But, we do orbit the sun..."

Sherlock blinked a few times before opening his mouth to respond.

"My brain is like our den. If I clutter it with useless furnishings, I cannot navigate my brain-den, now can I?"

I looked around the messy burrow and failed to see his point.

"Hedgehogs," he huffed. "You believe your little brain-den is elastic! That you can stretch it to any limit."

I glowered at him. "Now see here! I know my limitations but my mind-burrow can be as large as I fancy." I hobbled over to the corner of the room and began digging at the soft dirt. "In fact, I might add another addition right now!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. "I meant it metaphorically!"

I ignored him and continued to dig until I could fit my entire body inside the small hole and turn about. There I stayed, huddled up against the walls, steaming with rage.

After an hour or so, Sherlock poked his snout in to check on me. I was tempted to nip him right on the nose after he'd made fun of me.

"Ert, John."

"Ert?" I asked, letting my guard fall.

"Does it mean anything to you?" he asked, pressing the side of his face against the hole to try and get a better look of me.

"Nothing comes to me at the moment," I hummed. "Ert? As in E.R.T, Ert?"

"That's it!" he exclaimed. "Oh, John. You, yourself, may not be luminous, but as a conductor of light you are unparalleled."

"I'm what?" I asked furiously as I scuttled out of the hole in the ground. "What have you done to the bloody wall?" I asked, flabbergasted by the destruction Sherlock had caused in such a short time.

Sherlock had etched out a diagram of the farm along with an exact replica of the markings on the barn door.

He admired his handiwork for a moment before explaining the method to his madness.

" _Rache_ , a German word for revenge," he said pointing to the cryptogram. "Is it not?"

Having no reference to base my opinion, I nodded in agreement.

"Revenge for whom? That is the question! One that has been driving me to the brink of madness. If not for Ert!" he exclaimed gleefully. "At first I believed the message had been cut short. Perhaps, the start of a name? But then, yes! It had to be E.R.T! It only makes sense!"

Sherlock grabbed a twig and rapidly started drawing a shrew-like creature on the wall.

“A mole?” I tried.

"Not just any mole,” he laughed. “No, this!” he shouted, tapping the drawing with the twig, driving the point into the wall. “This is the most dreadful mole in existence! _Moliarty_!"


	7. A Fight for Life

"So this Mole E.R.T. wanted to frame... You?" I asked with an air of uncertainty.

"He must be sponsoring the mink."

"Mink? What mink?" I asked nervously.

"No mole could take down a full grown hen! And think about the size of the holes in the fence. The gaps were too small for me or Lestrade to get through without bending the wires. However, a mink could have easily slid through!"

"What motivation would the mink have to kill for this mole?"

"That is what we're about to find out!" Sherlock explained as we approached an unfamiliar den near the farm.

"Sherlock!" I shouted as he started digging at the entryway.

"Blast!" he cursed. "Even if I manage to squeeze through there's no telling how narrow the passage will become."

"I guess we'll have to wait for him to come out," I shrugged.

"Or..." Sherlock said looking towards me with interest. "Perhaps..."

"No!" I protested.

"I'll go get Lestrade. I only need you to lure him out and we'll take care of the rest."

Sherlock darted off towards the stream while I remained perched at the entryway, gathering the courage to venture inside to draw out the murderous mink.

I couldn't stop thinking about my encounter with Sir Badger Moran those years ago. He had came out of nowhere and struck me on the shoulder, crushing the bone and grazing the subclavian artery. If it weren't for the man-made drain pipe nearby he would have surely taken my life that night.

Worn with pain, and weak from battle, I remained in that drain pipe for days on end. When I finally gathered the strength to walk, I was struck down with infection.

For months I lay in despair, emaciated and weak, unable to drink more than a few drops of water or eat more than a few nibbles of an earthworm.

I never wanted to return to such a state of being. Before Sherlock I had lead an objectless life. I never felt true purpose until I met my otter friend and now he was being framed for a crime he didn't commit.

This Moliarty would stop at nothing to see Sherlock standing at the business end of the farmer's death stick.

I took in a deep breath and scuttled into the burrow before I had the chance to doubt myself.


	8. A Study in Mink

The scent hit me all at once. The den reeked of musk, urine, feces, and worst of all, _disease_.

The narrow walls were only a few inches wide and continued to narrow the deeper I travelled. This den was nothing like my own and lacked the homely elements. It appeared to be just one long narrow tube, dug into the Earth.

I noticed a slight slant to the floor the deeper I went. After about ten feet, the smell soon became unbearably strong and the light was nearly nonexistent.

That's when I started hearing a rustling noise, followed by a shrill squeak.

Before me lay a tangled mess of mink kits, whining for their mother.

_Mother?_

I felt my blood freeze and my quills stood on end as something started breathing down the back of my neck.

I turned to see a one-eyed mink snarling at me.

"Oh, no. I'm so sorry, I've made a terrible mistake."

The mink licked her teeth and continued to snarl and growl. She looked positively rabid and I knew I was in a terrible position: between her and her babies.

"I'll just be going now!" I said, trying to slip past the blood thirsty, murderous mother mink.

In a flash, the mink pounced and I curled up into a ball with my spines out. I panicked as she began batting me around the den like a play thing.

I knew there was only one way out and that was upward.

The moment she batted me in the right direction, I unfurled myself and made fast pace for the entryway. I had never toddled so fast in my long life.

With the mink fast on my tail, I reached daylight without a second to spare.

I was in such a panic I kept running away from the den without looking where I was going until I reached the water’s edge and fell right in. I frantically started treading water, swimming in circles while the semi aquatic mink caught up to me with ease.

I was dragged under the surface and started swallowing water.

I must have fainted because the next thing I knew, I was on the bank of the stream, lying on my back, with no recollection of how I got there.

I rolled over and shook the water from my quills.

"Lestrade!" I called out when I saw the silver fox standing nearby. When I approached Lestrade I could see the solemn look on his face.

"I'm sorry, it was too late, by the time I reached the water-"

"Sherlock!" I cried out, returning to the water's edge. I dipped my feet in and began paddling into the deep water.

I was just about to give up my search when a head poked out of the water. I gasped, coming face to face with the one-eyed mink once more.

I stood my ground, treading water furiously.

"You! You! Scoundrel! What have you done with my friend?"

I closed my eyes, gnashed my teeth, and swatted at the beast with my claws. I fought her tirelessly until a voice behind me rang out.

"John!"

"Sherlock!" I cheered as he swam over. I climbed on to his back and held on to him tightly.

"What on Earth are you doing?" he asked.

"I thought you were dead!"

"So you swam out here to drown a dead mink?"

"Dead?" I asked looking at the mink bobbing in the water. "Oh," I said, flushing from embarrassment.

Sherlock chuckled, "I do appreciate the thought though."

Sherlock grabbed a hold of the mink and tugged her limp body back to shore. We reached the stream's edge and Sherlock let me disembark.

Lestrade approached with his tail between his legs and his head pointed towards the ground.

"This would have never happened if I were quicker on my feet," Lestrade admitted shamefacedly.

"Or if you hadn't been pointing in the complete opposite direction of the action," Sherlock scolded.

"Are you hurt?" I asked, looking Sherlock over.

"Nothing serious. Mind you, she did grab a hold of my leg with her teeth, at which point I had no choice but to stop her by any means necessary. Unfortunately she didn't survive my assault."

"The poor kits," I sighed.

"She was already a ticking time bomb; it was only a matter of time."


	9. The Conclusion

I tended to Sherlock's scrapes and bruises while he recounted the tale to Lestrade.

"Mink Plasmacytosis. The injury to her eye and the stress of losing of her mate must have brought the disease out of its dormancy. Knowing she only had a few months to live and a fresh litter of kits, she turned to Moliarty for help. In another month's time the kits would have been weaned and they could have fended for themselves, but their likelihood of survival was slim," Sherlock explained. "So Moliarty, in exchange for the kits' security, had her kill the farmer's chickens. For every chicken, another kit would be allowed to live."

"That's terrible," I remarked. "Now none of them will survive and the man with the death stick thinks an otter has been attacking his flock!"

"I wouldn't say that," Sherlock said with a wry smirk.

"We handed the mink over to the farmer this morning," Lestrade grinned as he lapped up his tea.

"Or rather, we handed her over to the farmer's hens for a bit of their own _Rache_. Remember, we were cast in darkness when the farmer found us and human eyes have less acuity in the dark than our own. When the farmer visits the coop, he will see the weasel-like creature had returned to the scene of the crime only to meet their unfortunate demise."

"Brilliant!" I remarked.

"I'd like to think so," Sherlock chuckled at my enthusiasm.

* * *

 

The threat of Moliarity still lingered in the back of our minds, but with the _Study in Mink_ behind us, things began to settle down at 221B Baker Stream.

I decided to keep a journal, documenting our adventures.

Word spread rapidly about our dabbling in the _Murders Most Fowl_ and soon we had clients coming to us at all hours, day and night, looking for our help.

Sherlock would sit in his favourite chair and adopt his pensive pose while he listened to our clients’ problems. After hearing their stories, he'd give them his advice, and then collect his fee.

Occasionally there was some fieldwork that had to be done and I gladly accompanied Sherlock out onto the moorland. I'd even help him secure the scarf around his neck which provided good grip when I rode upon his back.

It was on one such trip that we stumbled upon a small, dainty, well-groomed hedgehog, lost in the middle of the pasture.

She was in tears when we found her, with every sign of inward agitation clearly expressed on her face.

I was quick to hop down from Sherlock's back and rush to aid of the poor dear. I took her paw in mine and gave it a gentle pat.

"There, there," I said softly. "Are you lost?"

"I'm looking for a Sherlock Holmes," she sniffled.

"You're in luck! I happen to have a Sherlock Holmes with me!" I said cheerfully pointing to my otter friend.

"Oh," she laughed, drying her tears. "He's much taller than was mentioned."

"Who sent you?" I asked, walking her towards Sherlock. "Would you like a lift?" I offered and Sherlock looked less than pleased. "I promise he doesn't bite."

"If Mr Holmes doesn't mind," she said, shyly.

"Not at all," he sighed as he crouched down on all fours. I showed the young lady how to climb up and she soon followed.

"Hold on tight," I said, leaning forward to grasp Sherlock's scarf.

"So now I'm a glorified taxi," Sherlock mumbled.

"Walk on," I said, giving him a small kick.

I got to know Miss Molestan a bit better on our ride back to Baker Stream. She was a good deal younger than myself with no hoglets of her own. She had only been living on her own for a short time and was looking for a place to settle for the winter.

"I know no place better than my own," I offered and I heard Sherlock growl with discontent.

"I'm sorry, but that's not why I've come here," she apologised

"Of course not,” I said, forcing a grin.

"We're here," Sherlock said, unceremoniously dumping us off his back.

"Sherlock!" I shouted as I hit the ground. Miss Molestan had the sense to curl into a ball before hitting the ground. I, on the other hand, wasn't so quick to react in my advanced age.

Sherlock wiped his hind paws before slipping inside the burrow.

"I do apologize for my friend's carelessness, Miss Molestan," I said as I helped roll her to her feet.

"It's quite alright," she said, brushing herself off. "And do call me Mary. Miss Molestan makes me feel old."

"Which you are most certainly not," I said, escorting her inside.

"William, Sherlock, Scott, Holmes," Sherlock said haughtily. "If you were looking for, what is it? _Hoglet_ _names_ ," he sneered.

"Mary has come seeking your help," I reminded him.

Sherlock climbed onto his chair, spun around a few times, and sat down.

"State your case," he sighed, looking off into the distance.

“I’ve come to you about the Sign of the Boar,” she said, nervously wringing her paws.

This seemed to pique Sherlock’s interest greatly and he sat up fully in his chair. Sherlock began to rub his paws together and his eyes glistened.

“John, if you would make our guest a cup of tea, we have much to discuss.”

 

_To be continued._


End file.
